Continuation of part 7.
Age: 12
Angelo's. Tuesday, 8pm. Hamish is coming too. JW
Sherlock's heart leaps at the text he received a week after breaking into 221b and being confronted by Hamish. He knows things are going to be different, but he hopes that they'll at least listen to him, why he had to fake his death. Sherlock fumbles with his phone for a second and sends a reply, hoping he doesn't seem too eager.
Thank you. SH
Sherlock nervously taps his phone against the table top, hoping for a reply. It comes after a few minutes.
Don't thank me. Thank your son. He organised it and booked the table. JW x
Sherlock smiles. The kiss at the end was a good sign.
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Sherlock arrives at 8 o' clock on the dot.
He stands awkwardly outside the door until he spots John and Hamish clamber out of a taxi.
"You look like you're going to your death," John jokes lightly as they approach him, "don't worry, I won't hit you again, but I won't be held accountable for what I say if you act like an arse."
A passing couple frown at him, but Sherlock gives him a small smile and holds the door open.
"Buttering me up won't work either," John says, leading Hamish into the restaurant, who goes straight to the window seat and shuffles into the corner. John slides in after Hamish and Sherlock sits opposite them in the chair.
"Order food first, talking can wait," John says, handing Hamish a menu.
Someone Sherlock doesn't recognise takes their orders, and once they're gone, John nudges Hamish's elbow, "tell us about what you did in school today then."
He nods and starts babbling about his Science lessons and how they're not allowed to do dissections anymore after something that had happened the year before, but when the food arrives, Hamish quietens and looks to Sherlock with a grin, "your turn."
Sherlock takes a breath and talks, throwing in apologies and explaining what had happened after John left St Bart's three years ago.
"I told you, you know. On the phone, it was a magic trick," he finishes.
"What about your paperwork? You're still listed as deceased," John says around a mouthful of pasta, "I saw it all when Mycroft was pulling strings to make me Hamish's guardian."
"Mycroft is sorting it all for me. He owes me a few favours for everything I did for him while I was away."
Hamish asks what he had done in the three years, John nods quietly at each story and frowns when they became too violent for Hamish's younger ears.
"I'm almost thirteen now, John. I'm basically a teenager," Hamish whines when he notices.
John raises his eyebrows, "tell me again, Hamish, who couldn't watch past episode three of Game of Thrones because it made him feel queasy?"
Hamish grumbles and stabs at his food.
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Eventually Angelo appears to collect their empty plates, waving off the bill and patting Sherlock on the back, good to see you again.
"Go help Angelo, Hamish. You never know, if you're good at carrying the dishes he might offer you a part time job when you're older," John says.
Angelo grins, balancing the plates on his forearm, "come on."
Hamish rolls his eyes, but does as he's told, taking the empty glasses and following Angelo to the kitchen. Once out of earshot, John speaks again.
"So, where does this leave us Sherlock?"
Sherlock fidgets, "John, I…"
"We were in a good place," he picks at his thumbnail, avoiding eye contact, "I had the ring, everything was planned out. And then you died."
Sherlock throat goes dry, "you were going to…?"
John nods, "had your brother's permission too," he chokes a laugh, "the ring is still somewhere in the flat. Didn't have the heart to get rid of it."
"How did I miss that?" Sherlock rakes his fingers through his hair, "how?"
A smirk grows on John's lips, "I know lots of hiding places in the flat, and the only person who knew was Mycroft. Let's face it, we were both a bit stressed back then because of the whole Moriarty thing, I doubt you would have noticed anything different in my behaviour."
They sit in silence for a moment, John following the markings on the table with his thumb, Sherlock struggling to find words.
"And, what about now?" Sherlock finally says.
"I would like you back home, more for Hamish than myself. He needs you more than I do right now. In the taxi on the way here he told me how happy he is, so look after him first, and we can work on us after, yeah? I can't say I trust you as much as I did before, but I'll give you a chance," John's voice takes on the tone of Captain Watson, "this is the only chance that I'm going to give you."
Sherlock reaches across the table and takes John's hand, "thank you. I'll try."
"You'd better," John smiles, "or I'll kick your arse into next week. That's a promise."
For the first time in years, Sherlock gives a proper laugh, "I don't doubt that."
They stand and as Sherlock pulls his coat back on, his chest is assaulted by 4'9'' of small boy. Hamish squeezes Sherlock's waist and buries his face in his shirt. Sherlock presses his nose into Hamish's hair, "do you forgive me?" He mumbles.
"No," Hamish deadpans, "but I do want you to come home. Properly this time, I missed you."
Sherlock peeks at John from under his fringe. John smiles gently and nods.
"There's a hole in the flat that's been there for three years, and the only thing that can fill it is you, you idiot."
"Thank you," Sherlock says, giving Hamish a squeeze, "I should be going though. Mycroft will be wondering where I am. Thank you for meeting with me, and for listening."
"You're staying with Mycroft?" Sherlock nods, making John sigh, "it's late, come back to Baker Street for the night. Mycroft won't be happy if you go crashing in at this time of night. You can have the sofa," John yawns, holding the door of the restaurant open and ushering Hamish through.
"It's okay; he'll send a car for me. He's managed to gain access to even more cameras so I won't be waiting long," Sherlock uncharacteristically avoids John's eye.
"Then text him, you've never had a problem with that before," John says, waving down a cab.
It pulls up to the curb and Hamish pulls the door open, clambers in and tells the cabbie the address.
"I can't, you'll want to sleep and-"
"Hearing something polite coming out of your mouth is really weird, Sherlock. Get in the taxi; you're coming back with us."
John climbs in after Hamish and gives Sherlock a pointed look before closing the door. Sherlock scurries around the back of the taxi and sits beside Hamish, who mutters at John to budge up or we won't fit.
Hamish snoozes lightly on their way home, leaning into Sherlock's arm. When the taxi hits a pothole in the road he snuffles and snuggles closer to him, breathing in the familiar smell of Sherlock's coat and old scarf. John and Sherlock share a look over the boy's curly hair. John smirks and turns away to watch London pass by.
When they arrive on Baker Street, John is the first out. He passes some money to the driver and goes to unlock the door. Hamish is close behind, pulling on Sherlock's coat sleeve.
"Is it necessary for you to hold onto me so tightly?" Sherlock frowns.
"If I don't you might try to get away again," Hamish grins, pulling Sherlock up the stairs, "you have to stay and tell me about everything else you did."
"Why don't you head up to bed, Mish?" John says as he peels off his coat.
"I'm not tired," he argues, swinging Sherlock's arm.
"You were almost asleep on the way back."
"But—" he's interrupted by a huge yawn.
"But what? Yawning says otherwise," John laughs, "go to bed. Sherlock'll still be here in the morning, won't you?"
Sherlock nods, throwing a smile down to Hamish, "of course."
Hamish rubs his eye with the heel of his hand and groans, "fine. 'Night." He kicks of his trainers and trudges heavily up to his room.
"You actually got him to go to bed the first time you asked?" Sherlock says.
John laughs, "two years ago I told him that if he doesn't sleep enough his body won't grow properly and he'll never be as tall as you. I think we've got at least one more year before he realises it's not true and he turns into a grumpy teenager."
John crooks his finger at Sherlock and starts walking to the bedroom. He follows John down the hall and watches him open the trunk at the end of the bed. He emerges with one of their spare duvets and a pillow, "here, sleep on the sofa, you look wrecked. Did you even sleep at all last night?"
"I've found," Sherlock says distastefully, "that my body isn't as young as it used to be, I have to sleep and eat more than I used to."
"See, even the great Sherlock Holmes is tied down by his mere mortal form," John winks, "if you can find the air mattress you're welcome to that."
"Or I could sleep in my own bed?" Sherlock perches on the edge of the bed and looks up at John.
John snorts, throwing the duvet and pillow at Sherlock, "not tonight, I'll probably wake up and think I'm hallucinating. We'll work on it, yeah? We've got all the time we need," he steps between Sherlock's legs and ruffles his hair, "get in the living room, I'll see you in the morning."
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John wakes up feeling weighed down. He snuffles into his pillow and feels an arm around his waist tighten.
"Sherlock," he chastises, not turning over.
Sherlock nuzzles the back of John's neck in reply, "the sofa hurt my back, and you didn't complain when I came in here."
"Because I was asleep, idiot," John says fondly. He goes to sit up, but Sherlock's arm tightens again, pulling him back down, "Sherlock, I have to go to work."
"I missed you too, you know. Every day."
John sighs and rolls over to face Sherlock.
"I missed you too, you arse, but London's colds and sniffles and sprained arms aren't going to heal themselves. Sarah gave me back my position at the surgery when she found out you'd died and I needed the money to look after Hamish. Why don't you spend the day with him? He has tennis this afternoon, I'm sure he'd like you to be there." John grins, "he does like to show off. I wonder where he got that trait from."
Sherlock smiles, "can I move back in properly, John? I'd rather not stay with Mycroft for much longer."
"I never did take your name off the tenancy you know. Mycroft kept paying your half of the rent, so technically this is still your flat too. He helped a lot, money-wise, in the first few months."
"I'll have to thank him properly then."
John laughs quietly and leans forward nudging Sherlock's face up for a quick kiss, "I meant everything I said last night. I'm glad you're back, I thought it would be strange this morning, waking up to you being there, but it's okay. I'll probably be angry tomorrow, but right now, I'm happy."
Sherlock hums and rolls John over onto his back, hovering over him, hands on either side of John's head. John giggles and gently pushes at Sherlock's chest.
"I have work; I'll get fired again if I'm late."
"Fine," Sherlock huffs. He ducks his head to press his lips against John's jaw and rolls away to his own pillow.
"I'll be home at five; I'll get Chinese takeaway on my way home?"
Sherlock mumbles an affirming noise into the pillow and shuffles down into the duvet.
John runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair and hauls himself out of bed. He shrugs on his dressing gown and heads out into the kitchen to find Hamish steadily making his way through a box of cereal.
"At least get a bowl," he mutters, going straight for the kettle and clicking it on.
Hamish freezes; his hand half in the box.
"Sorry," he looks up at John with big eyes, "I'm a growing boy?"
John throws a teabag in a mug and leans back against the counter, "don't try it, that face doesn't work on me anymore. I have work so Sherlock is going to take you to tennis today, you can show him that powerful serve you've got," he winks and sets about making his cup of tea, "why don't you go wake him up, Mish? You might not get him out of bed if you leave him much longer. He's as bad as you are for sleeping in."
Hamish grins impishly and shoves the cereal box back into the cupboard. He tiptoes quietly down the hall, before crashing through the bedroom door, giggling and eliciting an annoyed 'oi' from Sherlock. John smiles to himself at the sound of Hamish launching himself onto the bed and prying Sherlock from the pillow.
He picks up his mug and makes his way to the bathroom.
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When John gets home that evening, armed with two plastic bags full of Chinese food, he finds Sherlock and Hamish bickering over the television. Sherlock sprawled across the sofa with Hamish tucked into his side, watching Jeremy Kyle reruns.
"Tell him, John!" Hamish shouts, leaning around Sherlock.
"Don't be stupid," Sherlock snorts, "it's so obvious, how could you miss that?"
Hamish makes a frustrated noise, "John."
John shakes his head, turning to the kitchen to dish up their dinner. He smiles at the warm feeling in his chest.